War Bitch
by HyenaHunny
Summary: It turns out Furiosa and the Wives did have one more friend to join them on their quest for hope and redemption and green. She's just not that friendly. Max/OC. Rated for violence, mature content, and mentions of rape.
1. The Mother

**This is a work of fan fiction using characters from the** _ **Mad Max**_ **universe, which was created by George Miller and Byron Kennedy and trademarked by Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc., a subsidiary of Time Warner. This work also includes several original characters all of which belong to me and may not be used without my explicit written permission (so don't be shady.) I am not profiting fiscally by publishing this work.**

 **This disclaimer applies to this and all subsequent chapters.**

 **Is that alright? Please don't sue me, I'm a poor college student and my lawyer is my cousin and he would definitely charge me.**

 **Anyway, this work is rated M for a reason. It contains graphic descriptions of violence, strong language, sexual content, verbal abuse, and mentions of rape which may be triggering to some. Tread lightly my interweb friends. There be monsters here.**

 _I have to get away._

This was a thought that Max Rockatansky had often. Too often. Mostly it was a thought applied to the constant visions of the people he failed to save. Right now, the notion was applied to his current situation.

He had been captured, dragged behind his own vehicle, drugged, stripped down, examined ( _thoroughly_ ), redressed, and chained down to a table – where he was now being tattooed and – by the look of that red-hot iron – imminently branded.

Again, back to the thought: _I have to get away._

Fast-forward about a minute and he had somehow escaped the grasp of those white-painted, shirtless kamakrazee thugs and was now running away from them through what seemed to be a maze of stone tunnels. He got to a strange section of hallway, with a sunken floor filled with water. _Water._ And a ceiling of bars that filtered in unholy sunlight through webs of what couldn't have been… green? _Keep running._ He trudged into the water only to see more of those pale demons pushing towards him from the other end. He scaled the side of the wall with the pipes and grabbed onto the bars. But through the bars someone long-dead peered back at him with childish blue eyes.

" _Max? Is that you?"_

Max lost his grip on the bars and plummeted into the water only to see that face again before being hauled up by the mob. He wasn't sure exactly how he wrestled away from them but he did. He kept running, hall after hall, the dead squaring off with him all the way.

" _HELP US!"_

" _SAVE ME!"_

" _HE MADE US DIE!"_ they screamed at him.

He ran through the apparitions but their cries felt solid as they hit his heart. Because they were so, so right. He didn't help them, he didn't save them.

He made them die.

No wonder he was crazy. Finally he saw a pair of doors, windowed with slits in the metal that let slivers of light shine through. _An exit._ Max felt hope for a moment as he burst through them, only to be reminded that hope was a mistake. The doors led nowhere, to a sheer drop on a Cliffside. Below there were hordes of people milling aimlessly, and above there were cliffs topped with green, as well as some kind of construction crane that held a chain connected to a large hook. _And behind me is a swarm of fucking demons._ Max looked behind for a moment before leaping onto the hook that hung from that contraption above the door. His irons caught on it and his weight swung him forward… only to swing him back into the arms of the hoard.

 _Fuck._

He was hauled back and his face was covered with a wet, dirty cloth as the doors slammed shut. As he was blindly dragged back, his captors suddenly jolted to a halt and went silent.

"We caught him, Mother. This full-life bloodbag tried to get away but we got him, we got him," one panted to this new arrived "Mother" person that Max couldn't see. But he heard Mother stomping forward, closer to him. He flinched as he felt his shirt being wrenched up.

"O-neg. High octane," the "Mother" read from his newly tattooed back. Her voice surprised him. It was younger than he thought it would be. She roughly tugged the shirt back down. He heard her step back.

"Let me look at him," the feminine voice commanded with utter surety.

The fabric was removed with many whitened, muscled fingers, all rushing to do the bidding of their Mother. They were eager to please this woman. She was important to these demon dogs – it made Max think of hurting her if he got the chance.

Max was pushed relatively close to the ground, so when his sight was unobstructed, the first thing he could see was her boots. Heavy, buckled, dark. But relatively small. His mind changed when his gaze rose to her face; she was obviously the type of woman who hurt him more if he hurt her first.

The woman wasn't far from a girl – no, there were no girls in this world anymore, never mind. Childhood didn't exist in this world, not anymore – a fact proven by the young boys attending to the man who marked him. But there was something there. Something soft, maybe in her eyes that hardened as she made eye-contact. This "Mother" was maybe in her late 20s, or maybe she was younger and just world-hard. She was probably a full-life, she had time. But she was a fierce thing, strong jaw, deep eyes ringed with black grease that was stretched on each side, invading her sun-dark skin. He hair was long and ragged, braided against the sides of her head keeping it all away from her face. She didn't look like a mother. She looked like a soldier.

"High-octane, indeed," she muttered, all stony in her voice but something awful sad in her face. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that. With pity. He didn't like it, so he snarled at her. Feral like. Real high-octane. She sneered at him for it, the pity melting right off of her. The suddenly she smiled again, a vicious smile with shiny white teeth and sharp canines. She stood up from her kneel and looked at the white painted skull-men that called her mother. "High-octane, crazy blood for my War Boys!" she barked at her "War Boys", who cheered and shook him. She took one more look at Max and nodded at one of the War Boys. "Follow the instructions Organic put on his back. Put a muzzle on this full-life. Or else he'll make your half-lives that much shorter." With that she stalked away like a goddamn predator hunting for her next meal.

One of them tugged the fabric over his face again and began to drag him, all the while chanting something very peculiar:

" _WAR BITCH!_ _WAR BITCH! WAR BITCH!"_

Max decided it was a fitting name.

 **One chapter down. I love writing in Max's POV but the "War Bitch" is next – don't get me wrong. I adore her and all of her boss ass bitchiness (and I hope you will too.) Be sure to review even if it's brief – but hell, here are some review prompts:**

 **What do you think the War Bitch's role is in the Citadel? Why is a full-life woman not a wife? Where do you think this story is going and how do you like the writing style thus far?**


	2. The Warrior

Leda remained stone faced as one of her War Pups blew powder onto Immortan Joe's grotesque back, which was riddled with sores and boils and oozing. It was painful for him, and there was a time where that would have pained Leda. Not anymore, though – now the thought of Immortan Joe's pain just gave her satisfaction. But right now it just pissed her off. _My War Pup, my War Boys, train them up to be his battle fodder. Waste. Waste. WASTE._ They weren't her children, those kamakrazee fukishima War Boys. But some time after her first couple years training the half-life War Pups, they started to call her _mother. Mother, I'll slit his throat for ya, Mother, one day I'll drive the War Rig, Mother, Mother, Mother._ They never aged out of it; there were even some that were older than her that called her that. It was sick. But Leda didn't mind it if it made them feel more attached to her. The more attached to her, the more they would listen to her.

What she did mind was that when they thought of her as a mother, they thought of Immortan Joe as a God. And she couldn't say shit.

 _Fucking lies, his lies, my lies, our lies._ She was their leader but she had to lead them straight into the cult dogma of Valhalla and chrome.

She had never voiced these thoughts, these aberrational dreams against the Immortan Joe. She wasn't kamakrazee. She knew she couldn't win. No, the War Bitch was smart, that's why she stayed behind when Furiosa asked her to go with her to the Green Place.

At least that's what she told herself.

Once her War Pup, Cato, finished with the powder, Rictus busied himself with preparing Joe with that stupid molded plastic plates, adorned with metals he hadn't earned. Leda stepped forward and handed her leader's horse-toothed cannula to him. The final touches lain, Immortan Joe rose with Rictus and Leda's help to speak to his _subjects_ below.

As Rictus stood at Immortan's right, Leda took her place on his left. Rictus held the jawbone microphone to Joe's mouth – _If you could call it that. Gaping breath hole. Reeking wound. Killimkillimkillim._

The Immortan took a great labored breath and began his oration. "Once again, we send off my War Rig to bring back guzzoline from Gas Town and bullets from the Bullet Farm! Once again, I salute to my Imperator Furiosa!" He gestured down to the Rig, where Furiosa had taken her place in the driver's seat.

Leda ached. This was the last time she would see Furiosa. _I should have listened to her, I should have gone with her to that bloody Green Place. But nooooo._

 _But I'm a coward._

She shook the regrets from her head and stared at the horizon. Leda wasn't stupid enough to think that Furiosa was her friend. Who had friends anymore in this Wasteland World? Friends made you stupid, weak, and – like that damned shite AquaCola – you would resent them if they went absent from your life. And they always did. Reliance. A commodity that Leda the War Bitch couldn't afford.

Joe continued, ignorant of the snarl that cut into Leda's face when he talked, "And I salute my half-life War Boys who will ride with me eternal on the highways of Valhalla."

 _Fuck me._ It roiled Leda's stomach to know the reason that they were so willing to die for nothing was because of her. It was a shit thing to do – and it made her beyond redemption. But it made her feel better about her choice to stay with the War Pups.

She resolved to not think about it. She let it be drowned out with thunderous rumblings, chantings of "V8! V8! V8!" and Immortan Joe's response:

"I AM YOUR REDEEMER! It is by my hand you will rise from the ashes out of this world!"

With that, Immortan Joe pressed two shiny chrome throttles forward, leading to three great waterfalls to burst forth with the cold, clear water that Joe had pumped from deep underground and used to control them all.

 _Can't wait for that well to run dry._ Of course that would mean she would probably die but hell, maybe Valhalla existed and she could beat the shit out of Immortan Joe in the after life. _No I wouldn't,_ a voice whispered in the recesses of her mind. Deep down, under the blood and the grease and the war she was afraid of the Immortan Joe. Even though she knew he was a sick old man, she was afraid.

The War Bitch was a coward.

The water stopped at Joe's hand, just like it always did. "Do not, my friends become addicted to water. It will take hold of you and you will resent it's absence," Joe declared, heartless bastard he was. No not heartless. Something beat inside that chest of his – something black, dry, shriveled but still too strong, pumping guzzoline and ego.

She could hardly wait for it to stop.

But for now she would wait. She was a patient woman. And as she followed she the Immortan Joe out of the chamber to the harvesting room, that was what she thought as she stared at his back.

 _You're going to die one day, old man. And I pray to whatever god that survived the Waste that I can Witness._

* * *

The War Bitch trolled the catacombs of the War Boys, occasionally being greeted with strangled, mad cries of "MOTHER!" and askings of when she would next ride out with them. She came to the part of the tunnels that housed the War Boys close to death. Well, closer than most.

There she came upon a mildly surprising sight: the feral universal donor, hanging in a cage, muzzled. She half-figured that he would have to have had been put down by now. But universal donors were rare.

She was AB+, like Furiosa. _Furiosa, Furiosa, Furiosa._ They called it selfish blood. Universal recipient.

And he was desirable. He was a quick healer and he was a full blood bag, good for bleeding. _What had they gotten when they weighted him?_ She wracked her brain for what his marks had said. _WEIGHT: 180LBS._ She did the math in her head. The average blood volume for men was 75ml. She did the math in her head quickly.

6123.5ml.

She did a bit more mental math to come up with his maximum allowable blood loss. 2637.5ml – a good amount before he would die.

She had always been good at math. _A useless skill._ She remembered, vaguely, when she was a child, wanting to heal. Reading old medical texts from a better world. _USELESS. STUPID._

Leda went from War Boy to War Boy, looking at their wasting bodies and feeling something like pity, she thought. Even though she had told them that Valhalla was real, its highways would welcome them, they would live and die and live again, it was shit. There was no true glory or real hope in their deaths.

 _Just bullshit. A thicket I planted._

She met Organic the Mechanic – a smart bloody butcher, a henchman, a little bitch but a useful one – _like me_ – in the tunnels to get a progress report of her sick War Boys. "Who's the least fucked?" she muttered to him so the poor blighters wouldn't hear her.

"A few should be alright, granted they get a transfusion soon." Spit dribbled from Organic's shredded lips. But Leda was used to it.

It was fucked, but she was relieved that there weren't many who would make it to the battle to hunt Furiosa down. "Which ones?"

"Psych, Nemesis, Silic, and Nux." He pointed them out them her one by one. Leda surveyed each one. Nux looked near spent.

"You sure Nux is gonna make it? He looks pretty washed."

Organic nodded roughly in agreement and shouted to the couple healthier War Boys that served as his own flunkies, "I got a War Boy running on empty. Hook-up that full-life."

The War Boys approached the full-life's cage with a shock stick of Organic's own invention. The popped the false bottom open but the feral kept up there, pushed against either side of his cage.

Leda thought this feral a stupid one. _Didn't he see the fucking shock stick?_

The feral dropped into suspension like a bad of stones. _A blood bag. Huh._ Leda had a shite sense of humor. She walked towards it as they hooked him up to Nux. It was like she was daring him to bite at her again, now through that muzzle.

Even though it looked strong, she wanted to be sure. The look in this one's eyes, it would do anything to escape, to survive. She gave it a couple quick tugs before giving him a once over. He had a cut on his head, probably from the shears they had used when they brought him in.

"Organic," she barked. He scampered over to her without hesitation. "This one has a might gash on his head here," she pointed it out like the feral was cattle. "Tell your takers that if they're going to butcher such valuable meat, there's no keeping them off the block."

Organic snickered at the War Boys flinching.

Ignoring the blighter, Leda helped the War Boy, Nux, sit upright. She lay two fingers below his jawbone on the side, feeling for his weak pulse. _Weak weak WEAK._ Nux looked drained but hopeful. "You got some good blood pumping into ya, Nux. You'll fight." The way she said it was matter-of-fact, clinical. But she really just meant it to be comforting; it wasn't her forte.

She glanced at the two tumors that had metastasized, that were eating at him. There was a time in the old world where they used radiation to cure such things. The irony didn't escape Leda.

Nux gave a weak, wicked smile before letting his head droop down once more. She placed a gloved hand on the back of his head with something like reverence before moving on.

 **I know this chapter was relatively short – I wanted to make it way longer but I also really wanted to update before Sunday. I guess I got a bit restless. Thank you so much to everyone for their reviews!**

 **BerryGhost: You are very close. BUT Leda is not like Furiosa (because Furiosa is too great to be replicated in this story.) Here's a clue: Leda is full-life and fertile but not a wife. What is she?**

 **Wickedgrl123: GIRL PLS JUST PM ME ABOUT THE 100. OCTAVIA IS BAE. Ahem. I'm glad you liked how I wrote Max!**

 **Squintz18: I hope this chapter clears the psychology surrounding the "mother" title up a bit!**

 **Things to ponder: Leda's name is a hint. Guess in the reviews and – if you want – I can PM you the answer as well as my reasoning. Here's some review prompts: how do you like the difference between narrative styles (Max's POV vs. Leda's POV.)? From this chapter's content, would you say that Leda is chaotic neutral, neutral evil, or chaotic good? How do you think Max and Leda will interact later on: when Leda has a voice that she chooses not to use and Max has a voice that he can't use (metaphorically, of course.)**

 **P.S. Max and Leda have only met briefly and under some pretty antagonistic circumstances, but I have already dubbed their ship name Mada. Geddit? Because… "Madder"? I'll just go away now.**

 **BUT! Not before I leave you with this:**

 _I am the ocean,_

 _just because you claim me_

 _does not mean_

 _you own me…_

\- Michelle K.


	3. The Cynic

Leda hated the milking dens. They smelled like sweat and pity and misery. _They smell like motherhood in Wasteland,_ Leda thought to herself as she surveyed the women being drained of their milk while they rocked fake babies meant to stoke their production.

Production. It made them sound like things. _They are. We all are to him._ Her pale eyes shot to look over at Immortan Joe before returning her gaze to the milk-makers. They were possibly more valuable than blood bags from what she had read about human breast milk. Filling, fattening, full of antibodies and proteins, an ideal feed for dystopic soldiers. She herself had been raised on this shit. That was probably why it made her retch.

So as much as she loathed going to this hole brim-full of the type of misery that made Leda ache most, she came, she harvested, she provided for her own dystopic soldiers.

Her mind switched gears when she heard their lookout, that fawning twat Corpus Colossus, call out to Immortan.

"Hey Pa!" he croaked at his warlord sire from his perch where he watched over the journey of the War Rig.

 _Right on time._ Leda knew it was right about now that they would discover Furiosa's flight. They would send a sizable fleet but nothing Furiosa wouldn't be able to shake. Immortan wouldn't go to war over the Imperator fleeing with some product.

"You know about this?" Colossus rasped at Immortan. "You're produce ain't going to Gas Town." He handed the scope to Joe. "She's gone off road into hostile territory."

"Why would she do that Dad?" Rictus asked dimly. _Who wouldn't do that if they had the chance with a right mind._

There was a shift as Joe withdrew from the scope as if he'd just been shocked, stung, bit. There was something wrong, something big. _What have you done, Furiosa?_

"LEDA. With me. _NOW!"_ Immortan Joe strode out of the room without more words to either Rictus or Colossus.

Leda sped behind him, not knowing where he was taking her. Her hand figited with the knife on her belt. If he suspected her of aiding Furiosa in any way, of knowing of her sin, then Leda's only hope was to slice him up good, hide the corpse and hightail it into the Wastes.

But the War Bitch was a patient woman. She would wait. But as she realized what route they were taking, through the green rooms and the hidden tunnels, she wished that he had just been taking him to kill her.

 _Furiosa, you didn't._

Immortan Joe unwound the great vault door that led to the rooms of his prized breeders. She had never even seen them, she had always just waited at the door.

"Splendid? Angharad?" Joe called out for his favorite, his seed-swollen. is grating voice bouncing off of the glass dome of a ceiling.

They didn't answer. Leda felt as though she had been plunged into scalding water. _OUR BABIES WILL NOT BE WARLORDS_ was painted in white across the floor. _WHO KILLED THE WORLD?_ was scrawled above the vault entrance.

Immortan Joe breathed erratically. "Where are they?"

"They are not your property!" It was her, Giddy, that teacher of theirs, the wives caretaker. She was wielding a shotgun that Leda knew she wouldn't use. _Stupid cow, shoulda got out when they did._

"You cannot own a human being," stated the branded, tattooed, _idealistic idiot. "_ Sooner or later someone pushes back!"

As Immortan Joe advanced on Giddy, Leda remained close to the door, Rictus suddenly appearing by her side. "WHERE IS SHE TAKING THEM?" Joe bellowed at Giddy.

"She didn't take them, they begged her to go," slurred the old slave. From what Leda could see at the door, Giddy was still pointing her shotgun at him. Leda willed her to shoot but knew that it was unlikely. It seemed like Joe knew that as well, walking right up to her and shoving the barrel up.

A gunshot rang off but the Immortan paid no heed, simply growling, "Where is she taking them?"

"A long way from you."

 _Not long enough. Furiosa, Furiosa, Furiosa, you noble idiot._ Leda's stomach roiled with bile and anger. She knew Furiosa sought redemption but she didn't know she would go this far for it. _IDIOT._ Leda kept stone as Immortan came towards her, dragging Giddy by her hair along with him.

"Prepare your War Boys to ride out, all the strong ones," he commanded. "You stay behind with the pups." He was about to exit through the vault door but the War Bitch stepped in front of him.

"No. You need me to ride with you. Keep 'em revved," Leda insisted sternly. She was surprised her voice sounded so strong. It never sounded this strong when she talked at him.

"You haven't ridden out in a year." Immortan Joe seemed torn between suspicion and something dismissive. Like he was questioning whether she could still ride out, like her muscles had atrophied or something.

"I don't rust," she hissed. "Come on, _Dad_. Let me get my baby brothers back for you." That did it. Joe liked this idea, the idea of his daughter rescuing his unborn sons. It made him feel like a powerful man. Leda's pale eyes mirrored her father's, and he nodded.

She was in.

 _Furiosa's an idiot. But so am I._

* * *

 **BOOM. Leda's the only full-life child of Immortan Joe. That makes her the third one, along with Rictus and Corpus Colossus. I thought that would be a really interesting dynamic to portray. And hopefully you think it is!**

 **Squintz18: WINK. You nailed it.**

 **Abohrition: Well put, definitely – Leda is a weak-willed character because she isn't really fighting for anyone. Well, at least in the last chapter she wasn't.**

 **ToRestOrRange: Leda the War Bitch isn't necessarily just like the mythological character but that was who I named her for! I see you girl. Or boy. Really whichever pronoun you identify with, I'm not about that misgendering lyfe.**

 **Comingsummers: I'm glad you enjoyed the look into Max's head. I think the next chapter will be in his POV again. I'm also really relieved you feel like Leda fits into this world. That was a big aim for me.**

 **And thank you to everyone who else who reviewed! It really helps motivate me.**

 **P.S. Sorry this chapter was so short, BUT the next one is going to be a monster. I'm thinking probably 3k+ if I do my job right. And it's probably gonna be mostly in Max's POV so looking forward to that.**


	4. The Rider

_FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK._

 _I have to get away._

But he bloody well couldn't; not like this. He couldn't even move his neck to look anywhere but the horizon, especially with the wind pushing him back flush against the lancer's perch of the car that currently sped full speed towards the War Rig driven by a traitorous Imperator who stole the warlord's prized breeders. At least that's how Max understood what was happening.

The War Party of this warlord, this _Immortan Joe_ , was probably the craziest thing he'd ever seen and it was all for a gaggle of pregnant women.

And speeding ahead of them on a massive warlike motorcycle was that woman, _that War Bitch_ , and a leanly muscled War Boy hanging off the back with a couple of those explosive-tipped spears. He had seen this woman twice – once during his escape and once again when he was caged up like a bird for the roast. Two occasions, enough to know her. They had shocked him down for harvest. There, suspended by his feet and muzzled, he had seen that _fucking_ woman again. She had been so close; he could smell the blood and the heat rolling off her in waves. Then she reached out and tugged on his muzzle, testing the strength before letting her fingers flit down to a cut on the top of his head.

She hadn't touched it. He had expected her to, expected her to push into it with her thumb and try to make him scream. No, she hadn't hurt him. And that was telling.

 _She doesn't want to hurt me._

Then he had called him meat, had walked away from him while they hooked him up to the one he was currently connected to now, a lean thing – _a War Boy, wassit?_ That she had called Nux– that seemed as crazy as the others. Crazier, maybe, considering what he had said about dying historic.

 _Who wants to die?_ Max was mad as hell and even he didn't want to die. The only thing he wanted was to live for some reason he wasn't exactly sure of. But he had to hand it to this War Bitch; training soldiers to welcome death was smart for battle in this world.

But they weren't smart. He had seen this before; it was cultish, their obsession with pleasing their Mother and above all this Immortan Joe. They saluted them by weaving their whitened fingers together and raising the arch above their head.

The machine sped up to go alongside a great monster of a rig where sat the great monster himself. The Immortan Joe.

Max felt something cold braid up his spine and seep into his brain. There were no real monsters in the world, no creature with great claws and an unrepentant appetite for innocence. Men like that were close enough. That man with red-rimmed eyes and a mane of brittle white hair and pale blue eyes that struck right through Max's skull and suddenly seemed more familiar to Max than his own hands.

This was another man who clawed ever closer to being a monster over the corpses of those Max could never hope to protect from men like that.

So he resolved not to think about it – which was probably smart, considering that he was strapped to the lancer's perch of a car driven by a suicide-kamakrazee War Boy. He began to claw at his bindings but they were too tight, digging into his wrists. It was useless.

Hope was fucking useless.

Basically he was fucked. And he was especially fucked when the War Boy that was driving sped ahead of the rest of the fleet of warlike rigs, flanked by the one and only War Bitch.

There were buzzards, spiked and vicious, clawing at the War Rig. So the War Boys would deal with them first, then they would go for the Imperator.

His Warboy pumped the engine farther, sliding up on her left getting dangerously close to the cars adorned with a menagerie of blood-rusted pikes and spikes and other instruments of death. Max looked back (or rather moved his head slightly) just in time to see the other Warboy that had accompanied them throw one of those explosive-tipped spears. It soared straight past his head. _FUCKING CUNT._

" _THAT'S MY HEAD!"_

There were other buzzards and Warboys clawing at the War Rig. Max was surprised that the War Bitch and her hog hadn't been fucking mowed down; she was a talented cyclist. Well, maybe not talented. Good at not dying.

It was fucking insane. Explosions every other second, Warboys and buzzards being picked off.

But the most insane to Max was this one Warboy, a parasite on the War Rig; he was shot through the shoulder and _the fucking face_ , but still he leaned forward, alive. Max watched in horrific fascination as he drew out a metal device that sprayed chrome, bright and beautiful, into his mouth and nose and soul.

 _Holy fuck._

"WITNESS ME!" he shouted as he grappled with two explosive spears. In response, all of the other Warboys screamed _WITNESS_ in response, making the symbol of the V8 by steepling their hands together over their head in mechanical reverence.

And then he jumped. No hesitation, no doubt.

 _Fucking kamakrazee._

So that buzzard was down, but a bigger rig, one with fast rotating cutters, deadly saws, trying to sink their teeth into the rig. Max's Warboy threw them into reverse, speeding back and landing them flush against the front of the big buzzard rig. The other Warboy crawled forward near Max and hurtled spears in conjunction with other Warboys, including the one that was clinging to the fast-paced drive of the War Bitch. With a deafening blast, the big rig was destroyed, sending a saw straight towards Max's head.

He hardly had time to duck. God he was fucked. The part of the lancer's post where he had just been was cut clean off. Warboy #2 was cackling and Max wanted to crush his skull. _These bindings are a big fucking problem._

But they were an even bigger problem when their rig swerved out of reverse, facing a horizon filled and swirling with the kind of sandstorm that would block out the sun. Max started to claw furiously at his cuffs but was interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle. _Goddammit._

The War Bitch was riding right beside them, her lackey nowhere to be seen. Probably under a wheel by now.

"MOTHER! MOTHER, WITH US!" the pale, crazed creature in the driver's seat screeched at the woman.

For a moment she seemed to be contemplating facing the storm on her bike but she seemed to get over that thought quickly. She sped until she was beside the rig, as close as she could be without collision, before she made a quick leap, kicking the bike away, and grasping onto the side of the car. The War Bitch made quick work of hauling herself up and descending through the roof into the passenger's seat.

 _Well that's just fucking ideal._

* * *

 **Sorry for the giant gap between updates. Do you know how hard it is to write fucking car chase scenes from a movie as crazy as Mad Max? SO HARD. Especially since the movie isn't out yet so I can't just pause and rewind with great onscreen clarity. But I'm working on it.**

 **Anyway, I'll work on updating closer together. I'd put a smiley face but this is a Mad Max fanfic. Seriously.**

 **Here's a review prompt:**

 **What do you think is going to happen next? (I like to keep you guessing but I want to know if I'm gonna surprise you or not)**

 **P.S. I'm glad you liked my plot twist. I'm all about complicated familial dynamics.**

 **P.P.S. case you were wondering what the terms "half-life" and "full-life" mean, here's my interpretation of it:**

 **So half-life is sort of a play on the whole radiation decay thing. Basically, if you're someone like Nux who has been essentially born with radiation poisoning and a shortened life span because of the effect the radiation had, you're a half-life. But people like Leda, Max, Furiosa, and the Wives are all healthy and haven't been sickened by the inherent radioactivity of the Wastes. Between the three children of Immortan Joe - Rictus Erectus, Corpus Colossus, and Leda Apatheia - only Leda is full-life; she was born completely healthy. Immortan Joe really wants a full-life heir to carry on his legacy of dickishness but because Immortan Joe is basically Henry VIII + apocalypse, he doesn't acknowledge Leda as his heir. Because vagina. She has a real Elizabeth I thing going on.**


	5. The Commander

Leda was both smart enough and stupid enough to get into that car with that goddamn Warboy, Nux. Smart because she wouldn't survive to get to Furiosa if she stayed bike-bound in this kind of storm; stupid because Warboys near the end were even more kamakrazee than the Warboys at the beginning. So she jumped; she had lost her own Warboy, Cutter, to one of the buzzards so it was easy.

She needed to get to Furiosa, so she needed to make it through this storm – and by the look of that cyclone that was growing on the horizon, she needed Nux.

"If you're gonna fang it through, you need a counterweight. Get your Blood Bag toward the back," she commanded, shouting through the sounds of the coming storm. The other Warboy on the rig, Slit, began to comply.

The spare Warboy got behind the blood bag and unpinned him from the lancer's post. Screaming things at the feral that Leda didn't care enough to pay attention to as he dragged him towards the back of the car.

They got closer and closer to the dust storm and Leda realized that it was inevitable that the feral would try to escape, especially since Slit would probably kill him in the process of getting him to the back. She followed the pair with her pale eyes, ignoring Nux. True to her prediction, the feral started to struggle, pushing and head-butting until the Warboy slipped, grasping at the feral's leg until its boot came off, the Warboy falling into the sand with it.

The blood bag spun to peer through the back window. Leda knew his next move would be to try and get in the car with them, so the War Bitch pulled the top shut before he could clamber in the only hope of shelter he had from the storm.

Leda saw now that the cyclone was deadly close, whirling and clawing at the vehicles that pursued Furiosa. It devoured them. And when Leda looked over at Nux, she saw what he saw; a gateway. And then he started to boost the nitro.

"Oh what a day!" the Warboy screeched in excitement. "WHAT A LOVELY DAY!"

" _Stop._ " Leda's voice was calm and cold and ready to strike, just like the hand that had shot towards her blade. But Nux ignored her. Instead just practically singing:

"I'm the man who grabbed the sun riding to Valhalla!"

" _NO YOU'RE BLOODY WELL NOT!_ " She began to unsheathe her blade but there must have been a hesitation, a moment of weakness where she didn't want to kill this child, this boy that she had made into what he was. With this hesitation came consequence – Nux used it, just like she had showed him, to palm the back of her head, wrap her hair in his fingers, pull her back and then slam her forward, hard into the dash.

She felt disoriented, displaced as she faded back and forth between the cold of unconsciousness and the heat of reality. But she still heard Nux as he said, "Sorry, Mother. But you said… Witness me Blood Bag! Witness! I live, I die, I live again! WE LIVE AGAIN, MOTHER!"

Then she felt weightless as they crashed. Then she felt nothing.

* * *

Leda had never – not once in her 28 or so years on this wasted planet – woken up peacefully. She always tore her way out of the vivid dreams that dressed her sleeping mind. She clawed at the barrier between reality and the recesses of her brain like it was a vile womb.

This was no different. Her battle-shook brain awoke seeped in anger and a pitch of panic. _Something's touching you, Leda. Hmmm. Your back. Shake, shake, no one's home. Creeping up – HE'S GOING FOR YOUR BLADE_ , her mind hissed in the muscles contracted violently as she fought for consciousness and won.

Her eyes flickered open. _Feet. Only one boot. NOT NUX._

 _Oh, fuck that._

The feral obviously hadn't registered in this moment and a half that she had roused that she had roused in the first place. So he wasn't ready for one hand to jerk out and pull a foot out from under him while the other reached for the handle of her machete. She rolled away rapidly, putting distance between them before she jumped up. Swiftly unsheathing her blade, she assumed the stance she always did before she gutted a man.

 _He's bigger than you. SMALL. WEAK. POOR EXCUSE FOR A FULL-LIFE._

 _But I'm faster._

 _But he has a gun,_ she realized. _SHIT._ Leda the fucking War Bitch could dodge a punch as well as she could take one but you don't fucking walk off a bullet wound of that caliber. The gun the feral clutched in his hand was practically a blunderbuss.

 _Option One: Run._ No. She had taught too many boys to be kamakrazee for her not to be fearless when it came to a gutting. Her lack of fear when it came to death was one of her best traits.

 _Option Two: Convince him to fight fair and drop the gun._ Fat chance.

 _Option Three: Surprise, Bitch._

 _Surprise, bitch_ it was.

Leda knew the best way to deal with an asshole with a gun was to get closer to said asshole with a gun. Well, the best way if you were someone like her. So she moved towards him deftly and very fucking quickly, weaving one arm around his waist and another around his back before twisting her torso, lifting him high on her back, and swinging him down. Hard. He landed with a groan and she stepped on the wrist that held the gun. She knelt down and put her machete to his jaw, right under the muzzle and began to apply pressure.

The blade had been sharpened that morning. Rivulets of blood dripped down his neck. To Leda's surprise, the feral's eyes widened. In shock maybe.

"What?" she said gently. "Did you think I wouldn't kill you? That I'd let you kill me? Or maybe that I wasn't strong enough?" She paused for a moment. "I'm sorry that your last thoughts are so idiotic then."

She was about to deliver the final blow before something rang in her head, sharp and strong and right.

 _It takes more strength in this world to fight for life than to fight against it._

Those had been the last words spoken to her by her mother, a rare Wasteland full-life who was soft and kind and – after Leda's birth had rendered her sterile – useless. Immortan Joe had killed her before she could poison his daughter with such traits.

 _USELESS._

Leda recoiled from him like she had been stung. The feral took his opportunity and hit her. Hard, with the butt of his gun.

Before Leda's world went dark, she could have sworn that her mother was hovering above her, looking down in disgust and pity.

She didn't see anything, she didn't see visions, she didn't see her regrets. It was quiet, it was dark. Cold. It was escape.

Maybe it was Valhalla. Maybe she hadn't lied.

But it didn't last. She woke up, her head splitting and when she sat up with a volt the pain flashed through her skull so hard that bile, stomach acid rose in her throat. She could feel drying blood in her eyelashes. But it didn't matter.

The feral wasn't there. But neither was Nux. That would slow him down. And judging by how far the War Party was, she hadn't been out long, she could still catch up to him. Leda stood and examined her surroundings – _Fuck, where's my blade?_ He must have taken it. But he hadn't searched the lining of her jacket. So she still had those blades, small and dull as they were.

He didn't shoot her when he could have, and that meant the gun was shit. But god it incensed her.

And when she looked to the horizon, she got even madder. The War Rig.

 _MOVE, FURIOSA, MOVE. HE'S COMING, HE'S COMING, THAT FERAL FUCK._

And then she ran. And ran. And ran.

* * *

 **Whew. Hey, guess what guys? Next chapter isn't gonna be from Max or Leda's perspective…**

 **Grizzlybearsandteacups: I love the combo of Nux + Leda + Max. I call them the Crazy Babies. Like they're a boyband or some shit.**

 **Comingsummers: THANK YOU FOR APPRECIATING MY STRUGGLE YOU ARE BAE**

 **ToRestOrRange: So I always assume that Max is in a state of WTF/FML so when he realizes what's going on with Leda he's going to be** _ **very**_ **just…. Whhhhaaaat? Dis bitch? But I promise that just because Leda is chilling with the good guys, she's not gonna put on the airs of a good guy. She's not in the same boat as Furiosa; she's not looking for redemption or forgiveness. It's gonna be an interesting dynamic.**


End file.
